


The Color of Midnight

by caffeinatednightowl



Series: Daughter of Dusk [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Arcanist Questline (Final Fantasy XIV), Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Au Ra Xaela Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Awkward Crush, Awkwardness, Backstory, Crushes, Crystal Tower Questline (Final Fantasy XIV), Crystal Tower Questline G'raha Tia (Final Fantasy XIV: A Realm Reborn), Dystopia, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, First Kiss, First Love, POV G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, Patch 3.0: Heavensward Spoilers, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, The Hero's Journey, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27948323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinatednightowl/pseuds/caffeinatednightowl
Summary: Oneshots in the Daughter of Dusk series. Most of these will be pre-5.0.Rating may be changed in the future.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Series: Daughter of Dusk [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024647
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32





	1. Saltswept

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was also a RP!Mara one, but it fits in to the WoL!Mara storyline.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara arrives in Limsa Lominsa.

Mara had seen it; as soon as they called for land, she had raced up deck, standing against the wooden rail, mouth agape in wonder. “There it is, lass,” said one of the sailors, pointing towards the island slowlng growing in their vision. “Limsa Lominsa. Defiant Jewel of the Rhotano Sea. ”

Between salt-encrusted wood, swabbed decks, limestone stairs and iron rails, the city of the Navigator pointed up to the clear blue sky like a finger in defiance. Gentle waves lapped the docks, blew the sails, brushed Mara’s navy hair as she stepped off the gankplank onto the busy docks. Merchants ran past with their wares, salted fish in cramped crates, heavy ingots stacked high. The city of Kugane had been all lacquered wood and paper lanterns, stone paths and hidden alleys. Limsa Lominsa was a city built on height, carved into a rock rebelling against the sea. It shone white, bright, like a beacon weathering a storm, calling all wayward sailors home.

Fingers at the weathered grimoire at her side, Mara remembered the dead man she had seen in the Steppe; huge, muscled, and green. _Roegadyn,_ the sailors had told her. “Aye, Limsa Lominsa is home to more of ‘em Sea Wolves than the rest of Eorzea put together.” One had said. “They’re usually of a good sort, but be careful, lass. Limsa Lominsa ain’t a city for the faint of heart. For every good natured one you see, there’s a dozen other pirates and rouges hiding nearby, waiting to cut yer purse or yer throat.”

She would have to be careful.

Mara knew from talking to the sailors that the arcanist’s guild was somewhere in this city; somewhere, her long, long journey would finally come to an end. She was so close now, so close and yet—

As she walked from the Lower Decks to the Upper decks for probably the third time that day, she glared. This city was so _damn_ confusing!

Was it up or was it down? Was it right or was it left? She saw a sign for the arcanist’s guild in the markets and headed that way, but just ended up back in the docks. Asking another sailor, he said. “Oh, yes, near th’ lift.” She took the lift and ended up…father away. Back down to the markets, then.

The markets were packed, people were shouting, crowding around stalls, trying to sell their wares to unsuspecting buyers. Mara sighed; no matter where she went, the markets were the same. A man called out to her trying to sell her some jewelry; as if she had the money for it. Another man wearing rather flamboyant pink attire stepped out from behind his stall as she passed; “Oh my, what’s this? My dear, you look positively…unfashionable.”

Mara stopped, looking down at her woolen Steppe robe, dark purple in the color of Kahkol. It was supposed to be _practical_ , not _fashionable._ “No thanks.” She said, walking another step.

“Ah, but—wait!” said the man blocking her path again. “Maybe fashionable isn’t your thing. Perhaps you’d like something more hardy? For those cold nights at sea, we have the warmest, softest thing, imported wool from the Azim Steppe itself, over in Othard! What do you say to that?”

He quickly pulled out a shirt, dyed dark blue. It was loose, airy, but it was made of wool all right. Except, the fabric was too rough, many spots seeming uneven. Mara rolled her eyes. “That not Steppe wool.” She said. “You were cheated.”

“What—of course it is—I mean—how do you know?”

“Because I did _sell_ Steppe wool!” she glared, _finally_ able to pass the man (now looking frantic and worriedly sorting through his wares) and move along, through the crowd.

“Excuse me,” she asked one of those small people ( _Lalafell_ , she remembered, learning from meeting the one on the ship who had the foulest mouth of any creature she ever knew.) “I…new here. Where can I…?”

At least this Lalafell was civil, though he looked a little annoyed at being interrupted talking to a scantily-clad Hyuran. “Take the lift, head up to the Bismarck, the tavern.” He pointed. “Baderon will help you.”

Mara nodded, heading back to the lifts once more. Once on the Upper Decks, now she spotted the dimly-lit tavern. The air stunk of ale and salt and sweat. Roegadyn, Hyurs, Lalafells, and even a few Miqo’te gathered around tables, drinking down their mugs, taking off their steel helmets and setting aside their battleaxes and swords. Adventurers and mercenaries of all sorts gathered here; it didn’t look like a place Mara would find welcoming.

Still, the man called Baderon was all right. (“New here, are you? Fresh off the boat…from the East, you say? It’s rare to see Easterners…Oh, the ‘Azim Steppe?’ Forgive me, I am not sure where that is…”) And finally, _finally_ someone gave her clear directions to the arcanist’s guild. “It’s on the lower decks, just go to the markets and keep going straight until you’re near the fishing docks. You can’t miss it.”

After all day wandering around cobbled streets, trudging up stairs and more stairs, Mara stood before the door of the arcanist’s guild, staring the wooden door down. At least…After a journey from the hills and valleys of Yanxia across the sea…she was here.

And she hesitated.

Would they even accept her into the guild? She had been practicing, studying what she could in the weathered grimoire and yet…was it good enough?

Had she perhaps traveled all this way, given up everything…all for nothing?

Her fingers clasped around the grimoire at her waist.

As soon as she stepped through those doors, her life would change forever. For good, or ill. But did she have the courage to face it?

Mara clasped her hands above her breastbone, where her mother’s jade necklace had once lay. It was no longer there, now lonely in some pawn shop in Kugane but it was as if she felt its presence once more.

Looking back up, violet eyes filled with determination, she stepped through the doors.

The acting guild master, a tall Sea Wolf woman (Mara wasn’t sure she could remember how to say her name, much less spell it) was kind, and accepted her into the guild as soon as Mara confirmed she wanted to learn (even more impressed that she had come all across the sea for this very thing). Clearly, Limsa Lominsa wanted for arcanists. “You’ll find the guild has all the services you need, to practice, and also to grow.” She said, leading her on tour through the guild. “You’ll have a bed upstairs, and you’ll be expected to study with the others, improving on your craft. It does not matter someone’s skill here; it matters on how hard they _try_.”

Well, Mara was certainly willing to try.

The acting guild master (Thubyrgeim, Mara learned now, after hearing some of the teachers say it a few times) led her down to the basement storerooms. “Here are our uniforms,” she handed Mara two sets of a soft, grey robe—not as soft as Steppe wool, but soft enough. “And we’ll get you a grimoire…”

“I have grimoire,” said Mara, unclasping the weathered grimoire at her waist. “I found it in the Steppe. On the body of…how you say it again? Roegadyn?”

“Hmm,” Thubyrgeim took the grimoire in her hands, adjusting her spectacles, as she flipped the pages, her mouth pursed into a line. “Interesting. This appears to be a Maelstrom grimoire, but I can’t imagine what a member of the Maelstrom was doing there. It also seems to be a more novice grimoire, perhaps the man kept it in sentiment? The standard ones we have here have more advanced spells—” She turned to put the grimoire in a crate of other, similarly weathered books.

“Wait,” said Mara, reaching out for it. “I would like…while I learn of novice spells, can I keep that one? Just for while, please.”

Thubyrgeim thought on it. “I suppose for a while you can, but you won’t be able to cast any advanced spells with it.”

Mara nodded. “By then, I will get new. But for now…”

For now, she wanted to keep what inspired her to journey this far, even for a little while.

With new grey robe on, Mara went upstairs to the dormitory. There stood several beds in a row, each one with a small chest at the foot of the bed. Kneeling down next to it, Mara started packing away her worldly possessions; for the moment, just the clothes she had worn. The dark purple robe was folded neatly, next to her gulo leather boots, to be locked away for the time being.

“What’s this? I did not expect a new guildmate today! My predictions were wrong, it seems!”

Mara turned—a spectacled, pinkish haired Miqo’te stared back at her, sitting on the bed next to hers. “Um…Hello,” said Mara, feeling awkward. “I am new.”

“Indeed!” The girl smiled impishly. “And your bed is right next to mine! Then I predict with 80% accuracy that we will be friends! I am Foreseer K’lyhia. And you are?”

Mara swallowed, not sure how to read her. “Mara. Mara of Kahkol.”

K’lyhia grinned. “Well, Mara of Kahkol, consider me your mentor! Acting guild master Thubyrgeim recommended I get to know you, so we’ll be working together for a while! Under my tutelage, I predict your probability of success is…hmm…85%. Maybe 90% even. But you’ll have to work hard.”

“Working hard is…not trouble for me.”

“Good! Then we’ll start tomorrow! Have you yet learned to summon a carbuncle? They are the easiest of egis to summon, a creature to fight at your side while you stand back, away from danger…”

K’lyhia babbled on and on, and by the time night descended on Limsa Lomisa, Mara was nigh exhausted. The bed, while unfamiliar, felt at the moment like the softest of feathers, like fledgling yol down. Pulling the grey blanket up, Mara took a moment, and glanced out the window the starry sky, punctured by the towering white limestone spires of the city.

Despite her initial struggles, today had been a good day. And she had a feeling that tomorrow would be even better.

For here, finally…she _belonged_.


	2. The Second Dusk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara gets her very own horsebird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was, like many pre-CT Mara stories, written for RP!Mara (not WoL!Mara) but it was easy to adapt.

Mara stood at the Limsa Lominsa chocobo stables, outside the city on the physical land of the island, feeling rather foolish. The Maelstrom commander—a huge, grey-ash colored Roegadyn clad in the deepest red—glanced over the missive, frowning. Raising an eyebrow, he looked back at her…and then glanced back at the paper.

“This is…signed by the Admiral herself.”

“That right.”

“And it says that on behalf of ‘Services to Limsa Lominsa,’ she is waving the normal requirements for chocobo licensure.”

“Yes.”

“She also says that,” The man squinted, seemingly reading a sentence over again. “Wait… _you_ are the one? The Warrior of Light? Who vanquished both the primal Ifrit _and_ Titan?”

Mara was getting used to this kind of reaction. “Correct.”

“I…” He stared at the letter again, and then back at her. “Well…of course then. Right—right this way, Mistress Kahkol. The stable masters will be happy to assist you.”

“Thank you,” she said, walking into the stables. They smelled of fresh grass, with a hint of chocobo musk. In the pen, chocobos of all manner of colors chirped and pranced and munched on greens in the trough—mostly a dusky yellow, but there were few reds, blues, greens. She spotted one pure black, and another grey-ish white. In traveling Eorzea, she had used a few chocobo porters (all of them were of a yellow hue, perhaps bred from the same stock) and to be honest—she was not sure how she felt about these Western horsebirds.

With a horse, you could feel the muscles rippling beneath you as it galloped. Mara remembered her last ride on her mare, Dusk (as she was known in Xaellic) as they rode across the Yanxian hills. The ride was smooth, sojourn, and at certain points, it felt as if she and the horse were of one mind, as one movement as they rode into the horizon. Chocobos on the other hand…the Eorzean horsebirds were not smooth at all, leaving her bouncing to and fro as it ran across the horizon. Up, down, up, down, in a steady, monotonous rhythm. And the chocobos seemed to only have two speeds; running at full or walking slowly. Horses could be trained to go faster, go slower; the rider could set their own pace.

Mara leaned back against the rough stable walls, remembering. Besides, horses smelled of sweat, of hard work. The chocobos had a musk that just—well, it wasn’t pleasant to her nose. And they caused such a mess! Always pecking and preening and molting their feathers—she really wished she had more of an option in terms of mounts. But a chocobo was needed if she wanted to travel at her own pace, if she didn’t want to use porters anymore. And the ride from Horizon to the Waking Sands was starting to cost her more than it was worth.

Yes, she’d put up with it, but she didn’t have to _like_ it. These chocobos, these great yellow beasts were—

“Ah, here ye are, I found just the one for you.”

Mara turned; the stable master, a short hyur of tawny hair, came walking in with a robe, leading a chocobo out of the yard. Mara followed the rope, looking at the beast that was to be her…

She sucked in a breath.

Most chocobos were a brownish-sort of yellow aye, but this one was…this one was a dark midnight blue. “Lucky you, the next one up on our list was an uncommon color; most get the usual yellow. But occasionally one is born with different feathers.”

Mara slowly walked up to the beast; it was taller than her, but the chocobo’s head leaned down to stare at her with its beetle-black eyes. The eyes…they reminded her so much of a horse’s, of Dusk’s, there was an intelligence there, an intelligence she had never seen before. Carefully, gently, Mara reached her hand out—patted the chocobo on its beak. The chocobo _kweh-ed_ happily, seeming pleased with its choice of rider.

Mara quickly glanced beneath the bird’s flanks. She couldn’t be certain, but… “Is it…?”

“A female, aye. She’s one of our smarter birds here, I reckon. I’ll be sad to see her go, but knowing that the Warrior of Light is riding her, well…” he chuckled, signing off on some official papers.

Mara scratched the chocobo’s chin, feeling the softness of the downy feathers of the head. The chocobo _kweh-ed_ again, blinking its eyes slowly

Perhaps…though she missed horses, _her_ horse, they could get along.

Mara mused in Xaellic. “Perhaps we were made for each other, yes?”

The chocobo gave another happy _kweh!_

Taking a feather brush from a hook on the stable wall, Mara slowly brushed out the chocobo’s soft feathers. “Color of midnight,” she said, now in Eorzean. She thought for a moment, trying to translate the word into Eorzean. “’Dusk’ I think? Yes, Dusk, I name you.”

The newly-christened Dusk chirped happily.

Perhaps she’d never see her mare again, but she could be quite content with this new Dusk at her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join our [bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) for more fic and general debauchery.


	3. To Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara's thoughts after her first kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place immediately after chapter 9 of [A Tale of Dusk and Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27721885/chapters/69227049). Since the main fic is done through G'raha's POV, I thought it might be fun to explore this moment through Mara's eyes, to give a little insight into her own feelings throughout the story.

The second she was back in her tent, the flap rustling behind her, Mara clapped a hand over her mouth, her face flushing red.

 _He…he kissed me_.

She remembered the warmth she felt in G’raha’s-- _Raha's--_ arms, those strong, lean arms as they pulled her closer—the softness of his mouth as he pressed his lips to hers—the gentle caress of his fingertips on her cheek, her chin, her hair—his soft breaths as they pulled away, all smiles—Her heart had been in her throat, beating faster and faster as he touched her, looked at her with those eyes, those beautiful crimson eyes, his gaze so strong it made her breath come short—and then he had tipped her chin up to meet his lips, as if he had mean to do it all along—

_He kissed me!_

_Joy_ pumped through her veins, sang in her heart as she sank to her knees, hugging herself tight. A cheerful giggle broke through her lips, giddy and happy and feeling more intoxicated than she had that night after the escapade in Revanant’s Toll…

She had wanted to tell him she had wanted this for a while—had been hoping those strong arms would hold her tight, press his mouth to hers. She wanted to admit it, say it openly now that he had revealed his feelings, but after they pulled away, her mind was stunned blank—she couldn’t remember a single word in Eorzean at all.

She hoped he understood, but perhaps he did; afterwards he had pulled her close again, her head resting over his heart, as he gently stroked her hair, kissing her forehead and then the top of her head as they stood, basking in the _feeling_.

It had been _perfect._

At first, she hadn’t known what to think of G’raha Tia, Student of Baldesion. She had thought him rather annoying at first sight, following her around, offering to help. Didn’t he know she was the Warrior of Light? She could take care of herself? But he kept asking, kept _offering_ , and eventually, she took him up on it.

She was so glad she did.

He was a scholar, had so many things of Allag to teach her, and she listened the whole while, staring while his eyes sparkled with a glimmer of ancient palaces, forbidden magicks. She could listen to him speak all day…

It wasn’t until the archery lesson that she began to, well…imagine things _differently_ between them. Those strong arms, how _good_ it felt to have them around her, how much she would like to have them around her again…

But more than that…he listened to her past. He didn’t judge her. In fact, he seemed to admire her for all she overcame. Whenever she felt guilty, _unworthy_ , he looked beyond that, and somehow _always_ knew just what to say to comfort her. She shared with him her deepest fears, her darkest secrets and yet, every time, he promised her things would be all right. That she didn’t need to feel guilt, or be afraid. That she would overcome; and that he would be right there beside her.

She _always_ would want him beside her.

He called her _Mara._ And only, _ever_ Mara; never the ‘Warrior of Light.’ He saw her as a person, the person she was before Hydaelyn chose her, not as a _thing_. Not a tool to be used. He looked beyond the Blessing of Light to the woman underneath…and he wanted that woman, no matter how weak she was without it…

She only ever wanted to be Mara to him.

And then there was that night in Revenant’s Toll, that stupid, _stupid_ night when she drank too much of that delicious mead—everything was almost spoiled, she near flushed up whenever she thought of it—how patient G’raha must’ve been to carry her home, with all the things she said to him—She covered her head in her hands in shame—She had been so happy as he doted on her, cared for her, taking it in with greedy hands as those strong arms wrapped around her, held her tight.

But she hadn’t began to think, to wonder if perhaps, his feelings were the same, not until he let slip that he wanted to journey with her that night.

That’s why she kept it to herself; never spoke of it. She was embarrassed, yes, but… “ _I want to journey on the Eternal Wind, wherever it takes_ us.” “Us” he had said, not “me.” Oh, she had thought on that single word so many times since then, late into the night.

Did he mean….could he possibly mean…?

She hoped so. _Nhaama_ , she hoped so.

And when he came to her before they went into the void, begging to come with her to see his destiny through—what else could she do, but give back the comfort, the strength he had provided to her again and again with open arms? He looked so childlike, so _vulnerable_ , like he was barely holding himself together. _“The more I learn of the Crystal Tower, the less I am myself. And I am afraid…I think it’s changing me_.” And so, this time, she took him in her arms, and promised him that now, it was her turn to be there for _him._ To walk beside him as he faced his own trials. She would not let him face it alone.

If he would allow it, she’d never let him face anything alone again.

He had smiled then, slightly. And then he said those words, those words that gave her the smallest, purest hope, _“When this is all over, and the battle is won, there is something I wish to talk to you about.”_

She didn’t want him to see the way her breath hitched in her throat, the way her lips parted in surprise. Was this it? Did that mean he…? She wanted to know right then—and yet was terrified of the answer.

For if he said what she hoped…everything would change, would it not?

In the end, he hadn’t said the words, but…

Everything did change.

Mara had felt it as soon as their lips met—some shift between them, within the whole star. Things were different now, but it was a _good_ different.

 _He said he would travel with me, that he would follow our destiny_ together _, wherever it leads us._ An adventure, with _him_. Where would they go? A giddy smile broke on her face again as she imagined. Perhaps Raha would take her to Sharlayan, that great center of learning? Or maybe deeper into Illsabard, to visit some more Allagan ruins? To the South, maybe Thavnavir?

Or to the East, as he had described, and she could show him those far off places he fantasized…

But it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all, because they would be going _together._

Slowly, shakily, she got to her feet, walking over to her low cot. She managed to take off her thigh boots before laying down, closing her eyes, reliving the moment. She ran a thumb over her own lips. If she thought hard enough, she could remember the softness of his, the slight taste of him on her mouth…she wanted to feel that every day, every morning, every night.

 _Maybe tomorrow, after we seal the tower, we can go sit by the lake,_ she thought, with a small smile. _Just sit and watch the water…_ Maybe Raha would wrap an arm around her and pull her closer…maybe then he’d have the courage to lean over and whisper the words she hoped he’d say…And when he did, what could she do, but pull him closer and kiss him again? Maybe he’d let her roam her fingers through his crimson hair…maybe he’d let her undo that braid, and feel the silken strands beneath her fingers…she wanted to explore more of that hard muscle she felt around his shoulders, his back—wanted to touch and feel more of that which was _hers._

Her breath hitched at the thought, and she opened her eyes, her whole face flushed now. No, she couldn’t—she couldn’t get ahead of herself. After all, she was embarrassed to admit—have to admit to _him—_ that that had been her first kiss.

She rolled over on her side, covering her face in her hands once more. What would he think when he realized? Would he be embarrassed too? Would he tease her for her lack of experience? Or…

Mara suppressed a shudder as a thought rang through her—

Would he be pleased to find out he was her first kiss? She imagined those eyes, Raha's gorgeous crimson eyes, darkening in deep, male possessiveness. Maybe he’d be thrilled, and maybe—

Maybe he’d be her first in _other_ ways, too _._

Mara quickly grabbed the rough blanket and pulled it over her head, as if the heavens could see how red she was at the thought—how embarrassed—how _excited._

 _Calm down, it was just_ one _kiss._ She reminded herself, even as her skin felt electric reliving it.

But Raha _had_ promised to travel with her, to stay with her.

 _I want him to kiss me every day_. She thought, smiling even as she felt sleep settling around her. _Every single day we’re together._

Nhaama preserve, starting tomorrow, they would be together for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil chuckling*
> 
> Join our [bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) for more fic and general debauchery.


	4. A Final Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cid finds a singed letter in the Saint Coinach's Find fire pit...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sort of an epilogue to [A Tale of Dusk and Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27721885/chapters/69345849#workskin) And takes place immedietly after chapter 10.

As soon as the doors slammed shut, Cid let go of Mara. She raced to those doors, tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands scrabbling against the metal for any purchase—any way to open then. “No…please…” she sobbed, pressing a hand flat against the door, as if to feel G’raha one last time. “Please don’t be…”

Cid’s heart had twisted in his chest the second he had seen the look on Mara’s face when G’raha Tia had laid bare his plans. He was surprised; he knew of G’raha’s feelings, he had spoken about those openly to him that day at camp, but G’raha had been so _sure_ that the Warrior didn’t feel the same way.

Perhaps G’raha didn’t even _know_ until that moment, either…

Mara sank to her knees, on all fours, letting out another cracked sob. “Come back…” she wailed, her tears dripping down to the floor. “Please come back…don’t leave me…”

“Chief?” said Wedge in a small voice, walking up to him. The Lalafell looked on the Warrior’s sorrow, looking as if he was also fighting back tears. “Did you know?”

Cid gulped, shaking his head. “No.”

To tell the truth, he had misjudged G’raha Tia as he had watched the Miqo’te deal with his very obvious feelings for the Warrior of Light. He had overheard some of the Sons of Saint Coinach gossiping about him a few days after he arrived—apparently someone’s brother had been involved with him at some point. Sharlayan was not known for, well, prudishness, and with the stereotypes against male Miqo’te—perhaps he had acted a bit rashly in confronting him about his feelings for the Warrior of Light.

At the same time…Cid’s eyes trailed over to the Warrior of Light herself, who was still in the thrones of agony, pounding upon the closed doors with fists as she cried. When he first met her in Eastern Thanalan, still under the Guise of Marques, he had thought she was rather young to take up such a heavy burden to the world. She still was. After the lengths she want to protect him them—restore his memories—he vowed one day he would do the same. And after he saw her work in Castrum Meridianum and The Praetorium—he was slightly in awe of her, as many were. How could this young girl carry so much power in her? Why had Hydaelyn chosen her, just a small, slight thing, rather than a practiced, renown warrior?

But one could never know with the will of the Mother.

Still, while she was in his care, he had thought to make sure she would be taken care of; that she would be all right. No one but the Warrior of Light could clear out the Allagan constructs and beasts that inhabited the Crystal Tower, but he could at least make sure she was comfortable while doing it. A stocked tent, full provisions, a hot meal, and potions and bandages at the ready, and whatever else the Ironworks could provide.

And maybe…maybe it was a little bit of some long-buried paternal instincts coming out. Even so…

There was nothing he could’ve done to protect her heart.

Sighing, Cid turned back to Biggs and Wedge. “We can’t leave her here.” They nodded silently as he walked forward.

Mara had sat up on her knees, her hands trying in vain to staunch the well of tears. “Mara,” said Cid, as gently as he could. “We need to go.”

She whipped her head back at him, eyes wild. “No!” she snapped. “Leave me! Just let me…” she trailed off, reaching out a hand to the cold, hard, door.

Cid knelt down to her level, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We can’t stay here. We should go back to camp. Eat…rest…G’raha wouldn’t want—”

“How _you_ know what he want?” She roared, more tears spilling down her cheeks. “How does anyone—he told _nothing!_ Unless…” Fierce, rippling _rage_ filled her eyes now. Cid felt something grow in the air around them—aether, stirring and churning all around this Warrior—the power of her anger could fell entire armies, and now it was turned on _him._ “Did you know? _Did you know, Cid?“_

“I didn’t know!” Cid raised his hands in surrender. “I swear to you, I didn’t know what he was planning.”

“Then why—why would he leave?” The aether began to dissipate, her raw fury replaced with anguish again. “He told no one, not even…” she choked on the word now. “Me...”

“He didn’t want to worry you, Mara,” Cid said, grasping firmer on her shoulder. “He didn’t want—”

“ _Why then?”_ she wailed, entire body sagging at the weight of the pain. “Why not tell me? Why did he just…”

 _He didn’t tell you because he loves you,_ Cid thought, closing his eyes as Mara fought to pull herself together—keep herself from falling apart. “Come on, Warrior, let’s go back to camp—”

“No!” she shook her head again, her voice wavering, watery. “ _You_ can go! I want—need—stay with him—until he return.”

Cid’s heart twisted in his chest again. “Warrior, he’s not going to come out until—”

“Then I will stay!” she yelled, eyes wild. “You hear me, Raha?” she screamed, beating her fists on the doors until Cid was sure they would bruise. She rested her forehead on them, sobbing. “I won’t leave you—I can’t—”

Cid sighed. This was getting nowhere. Mara was too much into her grief to think clearly. Standing back up, he gave a nod to Biggs. The Roegadyn started at him, a little unsure, but then knelt down, and in one swift movement, picked up the Warrior in his arms. “Put me down!” she screamed, trying to scramble out of his grip, but Biggs held firm. “Let me go! Let me—I don’t want—I…” She placed her hands over her eyes, tears bleeding through the holes between her fingers. _“Raha…why?”_

Mara still struggled on the slow march back to camp, but it was a vain struggle, and the closer they got the more lackluster her efforts were. It was a long march, akin to a funeral march, and yet the whole time, she never stopped sobbing.

Cid nodded to Biggs as they approached Saint Coinach’s Find; approached Rammbroes. But Rammbroes was no fool, he knew something was wrong the instant Biggs took the Warrior—looking so small, like a lost child—away.

And so, it was up to Cid to tell the tale.

“Gods, I didn’t expect…” Rammbroes trailed off, eyes downcast. “To think that G’raha Tia would…”

“No one thought he would.” Cid interrupted, folding his arms and looking back at the tower. It would surely be in slumber now, with G’raha Tia all but dead to the world. Someday, perhaps he would wake again, be there to live out the Ancients final wish, and yet…it didn’t make it any easier for those left behind.

“And…the Warrior?” Rammrboes asked, looking to where Biggs had taken her, back to her tent.

“Still in shock,” Cid took a breath. “She and G’raha were…I think they were very close.”

Rammbroes gave a little grunt, shaking his head. “I had a feeling that perhaps on his side…though I am surprised about the Warrior. She never seemed to me—”

“I didn’t think so either,” said Cid. “But what’s done is done and…we’ll have to give her some time to heal.”

Rammbroes nodded. “I guess I’ll give the word that we should start wrapping up the expedition. I can handle everything here on my end, but Cid…can you…?”

“I can look after the Warrior,” he said, nodding. “You didn’t have to ask.”

Rammbroes sighed again, looking out towards the Lake, with the Keeper watching over them. “How old is the Warrior, anyway? Seventeen, eighteen?”

“Nineteen, I believe.” Cid said, remembering something she once told him, back in the church in Eastern Thanalan.

“So young…” Rammrboes mused, stroking his chin. “Well, this won’t last forever. She _is_ young. Hearts are meant to be broken, to be reformed again. She will move on, eventually.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Cid. “But for the next couple of days, I’ll keep an eye on her, just in case.”

With another nod, Rammbroes left to speak to the remaining Sons of Saint Coinach. Not knowing what else to do, Cid walked down to the camp fire pit. They had not had breakfast with the speed they had been running after G’raha. Perhaps he could make her some food. Cid doubted she would eat it but the gesture was there.

As he sifted through the ashes, looking for some kindling to light, Cid spotted something in the remains of the fire…a crumpled, singed envelope. The fire had kept going out due to the wind, and soon after G’raha left it had gone out again. But Cid hadn’t had time to try lighting it once more, as the news came in that G’raha Tia had ordered everyone out of the tower and then…

Cid pulled out the envelope. The outside was slightly burned, with a few corners gone, but the letter inside might be intact. As he unrumpled it, he recognized G’raha’s handwriting. _Mara_.

A bolt of understanding jerked through him as Cid remembered G’raha sitting by the fire pit for a while, lazily stoking the fire. So he had thrown this away? Why? If it had been a letter to the Warrior, perhaps a farewell, then surely he should’ve given it to her?

Cid unfolded the envelope and smoothed the letter down on the rock, reading the words,

_Mara,_

_I know naught what to say, but this time I spent with you, it has been the happiest days of my life. I never thought I would get a chance to stand beside a hero, call them as my friend, and I thank the Twelve every day that my path crossed with yours._

_But it is not your heroism, your deeds that I consider myself blessed to have met you. It is because of_ you _Mara. For your strength, to carry on after all you have suffered. For your courage, to stand up and face the unknown. For your kindness, for everything you offered me in open hands, a boy far from home who did not deserve it. Before the Warrior of Light you were_ Mara, _just_ Mara _, and I am so thankful that I got to know_ Mara, _for a time._

_I just wish we had more of it._

_What happens today, it will hurt you, I know it. I know saying sorry is not enough, but it is all I can say. I just want you to know that this was_ my _choice, and mine alone. I made it with a heavy heart, knowing the consequences. And I cannot take it back. I would not if I could. It is something I must do, where my destiny lies._

_But your destiny lies beyond here._

_Please do not blame yourself, I know you will. I know you will mourn me. Mourn me if you must but afterwards—you must continue on. You must live your life without me. You must put one foot in front of the other, and keep on going. I know you can. Because you are strong, Mara, stronger than you know. And you will get through this. When all is said and done, please, move on. You_ must. _This is my last request to you. My last, desperate wish._

_Mara…_

_I love you._

_Wherever you are, wherever you go, know that I am watching over you. For in the tower, there will always be someone who loves you._

_Goodbye,_

_Raha_

“G’raha Tia, you fool,” Cid muttered, carefully folding the letter back up and placing it in his pocket. Why didn’t he leave this letter for Mara? Why try to burn it? The Warrior was in so much pain, surely it would be better to comfort her?

But G’raha had tried to burn the letter all the same.

Glancing one last time at the Crystal Tower, Cid turned to journey down to the lakeshore, where Mara’s tent lay. As he passed G’raha’s tent, he paused, thinking a moment. Perhaps there were other letters in there? Maybe some mementos they could send back to his friends on the Isle of Val. They would have to get someone to clean it up now, distribute the belongings.

 _Gods_ , he was all but dead, wasn’t he?

Cid’s heart weighed heavy. When he had stood on one side of those doors, and G’raha on the other, he felt…sad, and not just for himself, but for G’raha, as well. Cid knew about hard choices, _Gods_ he knew—the choice to leave behind Garlemald, leave everything he ever knew was one of the hardest choices he ever had to make.

He remembered the night he escaped, under the cover of darkness, with a paid-for blockade runner charting their course to avoid the Imperial airships. For the longest time, Cid had stood at the railing, watching the capital, and the rest of Garlemald, fade away into the foggy, snowy night. The blockade runner, an old, grizzled Roegadyn, had come up beside him, raised a mug to the city as they fled. “You might want to spend this night in your cabin,” he had said to him, surprisingly gentle.

“Why?” Cid had demanded. “I want—I need to see this through.”

“Because you are leaving your home, perhaps forever,” the man turned to him, his silvery eyes seeing right through him. “It is hard, despite all your reasons, is it not?”

Cid didn’t answer. He had only closed his hand into a first.

“So spend some time in your cabin for now. Let yourself mourn. Cry if you must—but mourn, you should. For if you do not get the feelings out now, if you do not allow yourself them, they will become hard—bitter. They will fester like an open wound, turning you sour—turning you into me.” The man gave a bit of a hard grin. “So shut the door, let yourself mourn, cry as much as you can, and once that’s done, you can stand up taller. Do what must be done with a clear heart. Because if not—you will never be able to feel anything properly ever again.” 

Cid hadn’t wanted to follow his advice, but as soon as they crossed the border—he found himself shutting the door of his cabin and allowing himself the sorrow. The anguish. Allowed all the pain to come out, and for the time, relished in it. Then he had risen from the cabin bed, took his place on the bridge, and was able to steer them across continents and seas to safety.

G’raha didn’t need any more time to mourn, not now, but Mara…how long would it take her?

She had loved him too, Cid was sure of it, but perhaps…maybe she didn’t even know until then. How would she feel when she got the letter? Knowing that her feelings were reciprocated—that both of them had missed their chance for any sort of happiness?

G’raha had tried to burn the letter for a reason.

Outside her tent, Cid could hear the Warrior sobbing softly—she must’ve had no more tears now, for her cries were almost dry heaves. His heart ached to see the depths of her despair. Perhaps the letter could…could…

He held the letter in his open hand, running his thumb over the crumpled parchment.

Would the letter ease her pain, really? How could it—it confirmed that G’raha had felt the same—that even if she had begged, it wouldn’t have done any good. He asked her not to blame herself but wouldn’t she do that anyway?

Perhaps…all the letter would do was prolong it her misery, rather than quell it.

Part of him urged himself to hand it to her, it had been written to her, after all. And after that morning—didn’t she have a right to know of G’raha’s feelings? Wasn’t it better if she knew that he didn’t do this because he didn’t love her—he had to do it _despite_ it instead?

But knowing this, G’raha had thrown the letter into the fire anyway.

He knew her better than Cid did—perhaps better than anyone, now. He knew how she would suffer—how she would mourn. Cid had seen it in G’raha’s crimson eyes the second Mara had come running—G’raha knew how much pain this would case, and all he wanted to do was spare her from it.

He loved her enough to know that if she was to heal, she should _never_ know the extent of his feelings.

Cid swallowed a lump in his throat. Turning away from the tent, he held the letter in his hands, staring at it one last time…

Then he ripped it to shreds, scattering the pieces into the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to see more great ffxiv fic, join our [bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic)!


	5. Those Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krile receives a final letter from G'raha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another little epilogue to [A Tale of Dusk and Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27721885/chapters/67850803), now with some Krile angst.

Krile sat at her desk on the Isle of Val, thoroughly engrossed in the large, dusty tome she read from. Every now and then she’d pause, raise up her quill to scratch something down on the parchment. Sunlight streamed in from the small window nearby, illuminating the dim room. It was a beautiful day outside, but ever the Sharlayan scholar, she preferred to spend it in here, reading, learning.

It was easier, engrossing herself in her studies, focusing on work so she didn’t have to think about…

After another pause, there was a knock on her door. “Letter for you, Miss Krile.”

She looked up to the door of her room, staring. Letter? She wasn’t expecting a letter. Especially not since…Now, there would be no one to write to her. Minfilla used a linkpearl, the other Students of Baldesion would meet with her directly. So…who?

Sighing, the Lalafell got up from her desk and walked over to the door. She took the letter from the courier, staring at the rough parchment. The moogle postmark showed it was sent from Eorzea, not from Sharlayan. So, who in the world…?

Krile turned it over, saw her name written in a hand she recognized. She sucked in a breath, _Raha._

She remembered that day last week, when her adoptive father had summoned her, his mouth a grim line, with a letter in hand. “I have heard word from the Sons of Saint Coinach,” Galuf Baldesion said, fingers tensing on the page.

“Oh, they are the ones leading the expedition into the Crystal Tower!” she said, cheerfully. “I was expecting some news from Raha soon.”

“I have news, child.” He sighed, sitting down in a large armchair in his office. “I’m afraid…I’m afraid the news is not good.”

Krile could only listen on as her told her the tale the Sons had written, of Allagan clones and the awoken Emperor Xande and G’raha finally discovering his destiny, the meaning behind his Allagan Eye…only for her happiness at that fact to all be swept away.

 _“The future is where my destiny awaits,”_ he had said, and that is where he decided to go.

Krile had cried—had yelled at her father to tell her it wasn’t true, Raha was coming home, wasn’t he? But he only shook his head. Not only had the Sons of Saint Coinach had written, but Cid Garlond as well, offering condolences for the loss of his pupil, a boy he had raised almost like a son.

No, Raha was gone, and gone forever—and all she could do was mourn him now.

But in that moment, a small spark of hope broke through the depressive fog, and she jumped on her bed, shredding the envelope. As she unfolded the letter, her heart sank, hopes were dashed on the rocks as it became clear it was a farewell letter, written in advance—

_My dear Krile,_

_By the time you read this, I expect you will already have learned what happened to me. I know you will mourn, perhaps curse my name for such folly, but I need you to understand—if anyone can understand, it’s you._

_I searched my whole life for the meaning behind my Allagan Eye. Why was I born with it? What did it mean? The Eye shows itself every few generations in my line, so why me? Did the Twelve have something in mind for me, or was it coincidence?_

_I had always wanted—hoped—to find my place, what part I would play._

_I journeyed into that Crystal Tower, saw its wonders, its secrets laid bare. It is beautiful, Krile, you should’ve seen it—glimmering crystal and gold, the faintest hum of aether. We discovered so many things, perhaps one day you’ll read my account of the expedition. The Allagans were far more advanced than we realized. It’s amazing what we found and I am glad I was a part of it._

_But more than that, I found my destiny; I found where I belong. All along, the truth of my destiny, the truth of my birth, it had laid with Allag. But in order to fulfill my destiny, I must part from this world, part from you._

_You were ever like a sister to me, Krile, and I shall miss you dearly. But, don’t weep for me, please. I will not be dead, only sleeping, sleeping for the day mankind awakes me, so I can guide them to use the Crystal Tower for the good of mankind. The future is where my destiny awaits, and I cannot but run to meet it. Think of the wonders man will have when they are able to surpass Allag, the wonders I will see in that new world! Think of that, and be happy for me, please. I am just sorry I will not be there to see what wonders in studies of the echo you will uncover. Perhaps, someday, I will read about them, and be so proud of you for what you accomplished._

_I hope you can forgive me, for a letter is a poor substitute for an in-person goodbye, for all that we shared, but I do not have much time left. The Ancients sing to me, calling their son to their side, and I must follow them, with open arms._

_One last thing…about the Warrior of Light. If it gives any satisfaction, all I can say is, you were right._

_Farewell,_

_Raha._

Krile couldn’t hold back the tears now, as she mourned the man who was like a brother to her. He asked her to be happy—but how could she be happy, knowing that she’d never see him again? That he condemned himself to such a fate just to follow his dream of a “destiny.” What destiny was it, anyway? Perhaps an eternal sleep without an idea of what future he might wake up to?

“You _fool_ Raha,” she cried, the pain as fresh as it was the day her father had called her into his study. “You _stupid, self-sacrificing_ fool…”

And even worse than that, if his last line was any indication, she had been right that he might take an interest in the Warrior of Light. Krile had seen him when he was heads-over-heels in love, it was an all-consuming thing, and he felt it with his entire being, as if the world would tear asunder lest he be parted from his beloved. Of course, those times, they _were_ parted. It never worked out, and Raha would mope for a few weeks, nursing his broken heart. But to think that he had fallen in love again, and still decided to do this…Perhaps she had rejected him? Perhaps that was why he had gone through with it?

Krile didn’t know, but she wanted to find out. She could always ask Minfillia…and if the Warrior of Light _had_ been the final straw in Raha’s decision, she didn’t know how she could forgive her.

_~~~~~_

Months later, after unexpected tragedy had hit her life once again, Krile found herself standing face to face with the Warrior of Light herself. Once she had recovered from the disaster at the Isle of Val, she had meant to speak with Minfilla, perhaps launch an investigation into what happened to her home—but then Minfilla had been ripped away as well. It took a long time to track down the remaining scions, but finally she had been able to trace Alphinaud down after he and the Warrior fled following the Bloody Banquet.

And now in the outskirts of Dravania, in Sharlayan’s former colony, did she finally meet then. Alphinaud, Y’sholta, and the Warrior stood before her as she introduced herself. She recognized Y’sholta and Alphinaud instantly (the boy had grown so tall in the last couple of years) but the Warrior of Light—Krile wasn’t sure what she had expected, but not that. The Warrior was an auri as she had heard, but with dark, swept back horns and scales. Midnight blue hair, deep violet eyes; she reminded Krile of the night sky, dark, but also somewhat melancholy. Her hair was kept in a ponytail, though a rather short one, as if she just started growing it out. She wore a long dark blue trench coat and thigh high black boots; clothes fit for travel. At her side was a grimoire of strange, slightly glowing metal (Allagan-made?) While Alphinaud and Y’sholta smiled and talked, the Warrior was silent, almost brooding. Was this the woman Raha had fallen for? The woman that perhaps broke his heart?

Still, she would not ask about that, not yet. She would be _civil._ “You certainly look the part of Warrior of Light,” mused Krile. “Pleasure to meet you at last.”

“Nice…to meet you, too.” The Warrior said, in a small, heavily accented voice. She didn’t look very comfortable being the subject of conversation.

Krile let her be, turning back to tease Alphinaud so more (teasing that boy was so much _fun_ ) and there were other matters to attend; finding the other scions, finding _Minfilla._ So she kept her questions to herself, for a while. Just resolved to watch this Warrior of Light, closely.

And watch she did. She saw the Warrior in battle—how fierce she was, casting ancient Allagan magicks like she was born to it, directing egi and carbuncle at her foes. She saw the Warrior enter a trance, release the copied power of Bahamut. She used magic no one had seen in centuries like it was nothing—all that strength, all that power, in such a small, unassuming woman. Voidsent, beasts, ascians, all were left scorched in her wake.

No wonder Raha had been dazzled by her.

But then there were the other times, the quiet times, and the Warrior would tend to sit in the corner of the room as the Scions planned, took scope of what they had learned. She did not speak much at all; in fact, she seemed to prefer to listen. Was that because she was a foreigner, still learning the language? Or was it because…?

On those times when the Warrior would sit away from the group, staring off into space, lost in thought, Krile noticed those times she didn’t look at all like a Warrior of Light, like a champion of Hydaelyn. Those times she looked like…Like a lonely girl, far from her homeland, straining under the weight of the heavy burden placed on her head.

_Oh, Raha, you would’ve given anything to ease her of that burden, to make her smile, wouldn’t you?_

It was one of those times, after the Scions met to decide what to do about the threat of the Warriors of Darkness, that Krile sat down next to her in the Rising Stones. The Warrior picked at her food, lost in thought, so Krile had to start the conversation. “What do you think? About this situation, I mean. ‘Warriors of Darkness’ indeed.”

The Warrior of Light placed her fork down on her pate. “I do not…am not sure. “They speak as if they lost something important…I think, I can understand. That pain, that wanting to fix. It is…hard, to let go.”

There was a perfect opening. “I can understand as well,” said Krile, leaning back in the chair. “I lost someone dear to me once…and worse, I did not even get to say goodbye.” The Warrior said nothing, only looking down at her plate. “I had a friend…more like a brother, if I am going to be honest…we near-grew up together as Students of Baldesion, on the Isle of Val. I miss him every day, and his name was…his name was G’raha Tia.”

Krile watched carefully as the Warrior sucked in a breath—her fingers tensed at her side. She shut her eyes tightly, as if to control herself. “I knew…I knew a G’raha Tia. We went into Crystal Tower together…he never came out.”

“I know,” sighed Krile. “I just wish that…perhaps I could’ve stopped him. If only I was there—”

The Warrior’s hands came to cover her elbows, holding herself, or, perhaps, holding herself _back._ “You could not—he did not wish to stop.” She slowly shook her head. “He did not…nothing said would stop him…” Krile could hear the slight tremble in her voice. “No one could stop him, not even…”

The Warrior didn’t have to say the last word, Krile knew.

_So, she loved him after all…_

“Raha was always...everything he did, he did with his whole heart. If there was something he truly wanted, then—then nothing would stand in his way.”

Krile had meant this to be some sort of comfort to her, maybe. Maybe as a sort of apology, since _she_ had been the one to bring it up. But the Warrior’s sorrow seemed to turn hard, her eyes no longer blinking back tears. “I see,” the Warrior said, with an icy chill I her voice. “I understand. ‘Nothing stand in way of what truly wanted.’ I suppose…I suppose I know what was not wanted.”

Krile felt a little drop in her stomach. “I don’t—I don’t think you understand—”

“No, I do.” The Warrior stood up, carrying her half-finished plate. “I understand perfectly.”

Krile sighed as the Warrior walked away, leaning her head against the table, certain she had somehow made everything worse. No, she understood this woman now—this woman nursed as much pain in Raha’s leaving as Krile herself did, perhaps more.

 _She probably has the wrong idea now of how it was, how Raha felt…_ She sighed again. But, even so, what did it matter if the Warrior had the wrong idea? It’s not like she would ever meet Raha again…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to see more great ffxiv fic, join our [bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic)!


	6. The Snow Lily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Crystal Tower, someone else tried to thaw Mara's frozen heart...

The tragedy of the Warrior of Light was that, for all the people she tried to save, all the power she held in her hand, there were always those that slipped through her grasping fingers. The Warrior of Light was not infallible—though Hydaelyn had gifted her champion many gifts, the one she could not give was the gift of foresight—to know when tragedy might strike, and the ability to prevent it.

Mara Kahkol had lost many people in her life—her earliest losses came before she was old enough to remember. The Dotharl had sacked her old tribe (though she had reasons to believe it was Hotgo, she’d never truly know), killed her father, forcing her mother to flee, injured, with no salve to her wounds until the Dataq came upon her half-dead, days later; took them to shelter with the Kahkol. Her mother’s grief and the never-healed injuries rendered her an invalid, and she never spoke to Mara of her father, or their original tribe. And then when Mara was young, too young, her mother followed her father in death, leaving her daughter an orphan in a tribe that barely knew her.

But Kahkol had been welcoming, had become a new sort of family. Orphans were aplenty and many had lost their homes, their old tribes before. Though Kahkol was weak, vulnerable, and Mara had seen many of their warriors carried home on biers, many who had been cut down during the raids; who never returned while hunting for game. Loss and gain were two sides of a coin for Kahkol—for the people they lost, they would ever gain more whenever a raid happened on a nearby tribe. Though the Kahkol did not understand her, and she had never truly been happy—they called her as one of their own. She was Kahkol now, and no matter where she went, Kahkol she would remain.

Perhaps that was why she had taken so well to being welcomed into the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. People from all corners of Eorzea, all walks of life, coming together for a common goal. They became her new family, and for the first time in her life, Mara felt like she belonged.

But tragedy would never leave her. The Garleans attacked the headquarters, and she hadn’t been there to protect them; to save them. She wanted to cry, wanted to fall down on her knees and scream into the Thanalan night of her loss. But she could not; she was the only one left now to care for the dead. Even as the tears streamed down her cheeks, even as the knife twisted in her heart with the pain of it—the heavy stone of guilt—she had to move forward, keep on walking. To atone, she took the dead to be buried herself. Had to see their faces and _know_ what her folly had cost. In the dead of night, waking from dreams, she saw those faces again, remembered their sacrifice. Never again should she be so remiss, never again could she allow this to happen.

And so they were a brand upon her heart, seared into her being. A ledger of names, written in blood, of all those she failed to save. She begged of Nhaama that that ledger would remain sealed.

But it was not to be. The worst loss came soon after the high of saving Eorzea. She felt nigh-immortal, having beaten the Black Wolf; destroyed the terrifying Ultima Weapon. She had vanquished Lahabrea, had saved Thancred from an awful death. Eorzea was safe—Eorzea was free. The Warrior of Light had lived up to her promise of salvation and had not been found wanting.

Until those heavy, cold Allagan doors slammed shut, forever.

No matter how many days went by, the ache lingered on in her heart. On that day, it was as if her entire life came to a halt—everything she wanted, all dreams she had, all thrown to the wayside in an instant. She forgot who she was, what she could do—no longer was she the Warrior of Light, the infallible champion of Eorzea. In that moment, she was Mara, _just_ Mara, a scared little girl, far from her home, wishing she had the power to save those she loved.

But with time, she remembered herself again. And when she emerged from her tent once more, on a misty Mor Dhona morning, she was the Warrior of Light once more.

And the Warrior of Light could not cry over a lost comrade.

But that loss had cut her deeper than anything she had ever suffered. So heavy was it that she resolved never to speak his name again—her heart grew hard, and instead of crying for him she cursed him. Anger was an easier than sorrow. She could try to hate him for what he did to her, what he promised—empty promises, as she saw it now—all for _him_ to throw it away as quickly as he could. It was simplier than she thought it would be, to turn her affection into revulsion. Besides, her rage was tempered, honed upon the one simple fact—

Mara was certain that if he had loved her, he wouldn’t have left at all.

And so she welcomed that boiling anger, the darkness into her heart. For without it, she didn’t know how she would carry on.

Carry on she did, and soon she was thrown back into the thick of things—primals still needed to be fought; the rumblings of trouble in Ishgard. With distractions, she could forget. That one loss had cut her deeply, but she had survived. She was sure nothing else would ever come close to the pain of it until…

The creak of a door and the rush of a cold wind. Mara stirred, her head heavy on the dark wooden table. The door clanked shut and then came the jingle of chainmail; of heavy, booted footsteps. Giving a soft groan, Mara roused herself from her sleep, sitting up in her chair to rest her head against her palm. The footsteps came closer, and Mara heard the soft _clink_ of a mug. Mara saw a steaming mug had been slid over to her the comforting smell of spices filling her nose. Looking up, Mara could see Haurchefant smiling over her, holding his own mug full of presumably mulled mead.

“You don’t have to wait here, you know,” He said, gesturing to the empty Intercessory. “Master Alphinaud and Mistress Tataru have already bunked down in the barracks for the night.”

Mara pulled the mug towards her, savoring the warmth radiating to her fingertips. “Don’t worry,” she said, eyes downcast. “I want…I want to know that everything is all right.” She paused; _nothing_ would be all right ever again. “I mean…with us and going to Ishgard.”

“Mmm,” nodded Haurchefant, sitting down at the table opposite Mara. “Anxious? You shouldn’t be; everything should be coming along smoothly. By morning, we should have the signed papers to get you all past the gates.”

Mara’s fingers tightened on the mug. “Not just that…” When Alphinaud and Tataru had left for the night, Mara couldn’t join them. Exhausted as she was from their escape from Thanalan she just…she didn’t want to rest.

She was afraid she’d see their faces in a dream.

The ledger ran over with blood, and she had not the time to mourn them.

When the Sultana had fallen, she felt it coming up again—the bile, the horror. She forgot who she was—Warrior of Light, savior of Eorzea—and she was Mara again, horrified, unable to do anything but watch—

But when the Crystal Braves had burst in, and the treachery was apparent, she had to fight it all down—the shock, the pain—and focus on surviving.

One of the first lessons she learned as a child was how to hide her emotions when needed.

But now that they were away, were safe, all of it threatened to come back in full force. Even sitting here, with a mug in hand, she felt the instinct to let the tears spill, to let the pain out. But she could not—too many things were at stake now to risk falling apart.

“Once you all are settled, we can send out inquiries about the remaining Scions,” said Haurchefant, as optimistic as ever. “I’m sure it won’t be too much trouble—”

Something _snapped_ in Mara. She reared her head up at him, violet eyes blazing. “You weren’t _there!_ You didn’t _see—!”_ He didn’t see the look in the Scion’s eyes as they bid her flee, as they near-pushed her away. It was a look she remembered from her days on the Steppe, of the Kahkol warriors who would hold the line against an army of raging Dotharl or Oronir; a look of accepting death.

“The Scions are known to be strong, with powerful magic at their disposal. There’s no reason to think—”

“Not just Scions,” she said, voice rough. “The Sultana! I—I was right there, _right there_ , and did _nothing—!”_ Nothing but stand and watch; watch as she failed to save someone yet again.

“Mara,” Haurchefant said, gently, like speaking to a child. He put down his steaming mug. “You can’t save everyone.” 

_“You are only one person; how can you be expected to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders?” He_ had said with a smile, a flick of his crimson bangs—but she had lost him too, in the end.

Swallowing, she stared back at the table between them. “How do you do it?” she asked, voice small. “You are commander; have lost people. How do you…live? Carry on with the weight? To forget…”

Sighing, Haurchefant leaned back in his chair, looking up at the chandelier that above. His soft smile faded to a look of hardened resolve—a man who had seen many perish in his time. “I don’t forget,” he said softly, quietly. “To forget is to dishonor their memory. All the men I have served with are honorable knights of Ishgard—they deserved to be remembered. As so I remember them, and promise to live my life in a way that would make them proud. Some of them, under my command—they gave their lives freely, knowing it would save my own. Such a thing is an honorable death that any knight would be glad to give—so how can I spurn that gift by forgetting them?”

Mara rested her head in her hands. _How?_ How could she resolve to remember everyone—all those names written in that ledger—and be happy that they sacrificed themselves for her? “But…the burden…knowing they died because of me… _For_ me…”

Haurchefant looked back at her, smiling sadly. “That is our burden to bear, as commanders, or as Warriors of Light. We _must_ remember them. We _must_ honor them—they paid their duty to us, so we must in turn, pay that duty to them.”

Mara didn’t answer, just glanced at the steaming mug of mulled mead, taking a long drink. It warmed her up, somewhat—the spice brining tingling heat to her body. But it couldn’t warm the coldness of her heart.

“Come, let us speak of better things,” Haurchefant said, his smile turning genuine. “I’m sure your application for entrance to the city proper will be approved in the morning, and then you can journey to our great city. My father is lord of House Fortemps, and as wards of House Fortemps, you will be free to travel where you wish. We have enough influence to keep these troubles from Ul’dah from breaching our borders. In fact,” He rested his chin in his palm, pensive. “If you would do me the honor, I would love to show you around the city and our surrounding borders. We might be seeing much of each other in the coming days, and I will do anything to make your stay in our fair nation more comfortable, if you wish.”

“Why must you do this?” Mara asked, swallowing hard. “This…kindness? Even if I am Warrior of Light—”

“It is not because you are the Warrior of Light,” sighed Harchefant. Leaning forward, he gently placed his hand over hers—the movement made Mara’s breath hitch in her throat. “You have helped Ishgard, have helped me personally in the past; it is what I can do to return the favor. But more than that, it is because you are _Mara_ —and the Mara I know deserves all the kindness in the world.”

 _“You are only one who calls me ‘Mara,’ and_ only _‘Mara.’ The only one who sees me.”_ She said to _him_ then, under a starlit Mor Dhona sky.

“ _You are ‘Mara,’”_ He said, to her, his mismatched eyes sparkling in feeling. _“Everyone should want to see you. You’re_ wonderful. _”_

Why did Lord Haurchefant have to say things like that? Remind her of _him?_ Feeling slightly flustered, Mara again reached for the mug, now to hide behind. “Tell me about it,” she said, forcing herself to focus on something else. “Your home.”

Lord Haurchefant smiled brighter than the moon overhead. “Gladly.”

_~~~~~_

As he had told her, Lord Haurchefant traveled with them to the Holy See, introducing them to the proud House Fortemps. While he attended to all of them, he took particular care with Mara, making sure she was comfortable in their new situation. It began even the first day they arrived in Ishgard, as a House Fortemps steward showed them to their new guest quarters. “Room is bigger than I would expect,” said Mara, setting down the down overcoat she had worn across the Steps of Faith—the only personal item she had, now.

“Of course it is,” said Lord Haurchefant, opening up the drapes to a spectacular view of the city beyond. “It was my room, after all.”

Mara turned back to him, stammering, “No—Lord Haurchefant that is—I can’t—”

“You can, and you will,” he said simply, just smiling at her with that stupid _, infectious_ smile. “The guest quarters, while comfortable, are a bit modest. Heroes need their rest.”

He walked back up to her as she flushed, looking down at the polished wooden floor. “I don’t want to—to take it from you—”

“You’re not taking anything,” he replied, giving her head a little pat like a child (Well, he was _quite a bit_ taller than her, after all.) “It is a gift. One that I hope you will accept.”

Swallowing hard, Mara forced herself to look back up to him. “Why are you doing this?” she asked him again, as she had the night before.

“Because I want to see you smile again,” he said, his hand trailing down to push a lock of her dark hair behind her horn. “Nothing more.”

Her heart gave a decisive _thump_ in her chest. She hadn’t smiled in a long time, not since…

Those Syrcus Tower doors still weighed heavily on her heart.

Sometime later, before they set out for the Western Highlands, Mara caught Haurchefant in the stables, speaking softly to Dusk as he fed the chocobo her favorite greens. “Don’t tell your mistress about this,” he said, holding another bud in his palm as Dusk gently fed from it. “She’ll say I’m ruining you for your usual feed, but we all need a treat once in a while, don’t we?”

As Haurchefant laughed, gently patted Dusk on her head, for a moment, Mara was back in the Saint Coinach’s find, watching from behind a crystal early one morning as _he_ fed Dusk one too many treats. _“Maybe you’ll stop biting me now?”_ he had chuckled, as the chocobo gently nuzzled his crimson head. _“Put in a good word for me with Mara, would you?”_ And Dusk had _kweh_ -ed happily in reply.

“Give too many of those and she will not be fit to ride,” said Mara, stepping closer. Dusk gave her a happy _kweh_ —then returned to eating her treats.

Haurchefant gave a little guilty laugh. “I am caught, it seems. But the poor girl looked so hungry, _starving_ , I think!”

Dusk gave another _kweh_ between munches.

“What are you doing?” asked Mara, as she finished buttoning up her down overcoat and started preparing the saddle. “You can not be here just for overfeed Dusk.”

“I was looking for you, actually,” Haurchefant grinned, leaning against a wooden pole in the stables. “You are to set off for the Western Highlands, are you not? I know that land well; it was where I was stationed before the Calamity.”

Mara nodded, “Before ice, you mean? I heard Calamity wrought such changes…”

Haurchefant nodded, “Indeed. Coerthas as a whole used to have wide, rolling plains, sharp cliffs, forests of green. Much was lost when the snows came. But not all of it.” Reaching inside his pack, he pulled out a large, white flower, Mara stared, breath caught in her throat. “We call this a snow lily. It used to grow wild all over Coerthas, and after the land changed, it was the only flower that still grew, hardy as it was. So what was known as Halone’s lily became known as a snow lily afterwards. Perhaps you’ll see some of them on your way.” He paused, as if thinking, readying his courage. “And…if not…” He reached forward, placed the lily behind her horn. Mara froze, breath stopped in her throat in surprise. “There, where it belongs.”

Mara could only touch the flower, the petals soft against her fingertips, blushing heavily as she failed to find the words. 

At least _he_ had never done that.

_~~~~~_

Though her travels through Ishgard and Dravania led her away from Lord Haurchefant for a time, whenever they did meet, talked, fought together it felt—right. Her heart had been like the frozen land of Coerthas ever since that day in the Crystal Tower, but thanks to Lord Haurchefant, it was beginning to melt…she could laugh again, smile again. Around him she felt…comforted. Safe. And dare she even think it— _happy_.

But if the thought crossed her mind of wanting something _more_ taking things _further,_ she pushed it aside. _He is a knight of Ishgard, and I am the Warrior of Light._ _I am bound to travel, he is to stay here._ Yet, as their journey continued, with the hope of finally freeing Ishgard from the thousand year war, she begun to think it again. _Not now, not when we both have so much to do but…when the war is over, perhaps…_

She would smile every time she thought of the snow lily, as he had gently placed it in her hair. _Yes, perhaps…_

But that future came to a sudden, blinding halt when a blade of purest slight speared Lord Haurchefant’s shield.

She had cried—she had screamed—she could not smile for him as he asked. But she could not surrender to despair, not as she had in the Crystal Tower; Lord Aymeric had to be attended to, the Archbishop had to be chased after—and so she did what she had learned to do; lock it up, deep inside, letting it fester, sear itself upon her heart, but never, _ever_ open that box again.

It was the only way to carry on.

Though that night in the House Fortemps Manor, it was hard to keep it so locked away, for every step she took in that house—

For once, it wasn’t a crimson head she saw around every corner.

She sat in the empty dining room, fighting back the tears that she would not allow to fall. Telling Lord Fortemps the news...it was almost too much to bear, seeing a man mourn for his son. She needed to be alone, and yet she could not go back to her room…the room that had once been _his._

Alphinaud found her, wallowing in her misery. He said nothing at first, and for a moment, he stood next to her, offering silent solidarity. Finally he said, “You should change your clothes…They…ah…” Mara looked down, knowing what he meant. The dark blue trench coat she had worn ever since she first set out from Limsa Lominsa to become a Scion of the Seventh Dawn—it was stained, covered in Haurchefant’s blood.

Her hands, folded in her lap, clenched into fists. “Other clothes are up there…” In _his_ room.

Alphinaud sighed, looking towards the door. “Perhaps the stewards can bring them to you? If you don’t want…” he trailed off.

“They are busy,” she said, through clenched teeth. “I not want to be burden.”

“I’m sure you would not be a burden.”

“They need attend to the family. I am not important.”

“You’re the Warrior of Light, perhaps—”

Mara saw _red._ “Yes, _Warrior of Light_ ; all that matters, isn’t it!” She roared, standing up so fast the dining room chair fell sideways, clattering to the ground. “Take care of Warrior of Light so she can fight your battles once more! Keep Warrior of Light happy so she won’t turn power on you! That’s all I am; a _weapon_ , a _tool_ , not person of flesh and blood and—!” The tears streamed down her face, and she couldn’t stop them. She sobbed, reaching up with palms to wide them away, but they just kept coming. “Why…every time I want something for _myself_ , I always lose it, in the end?”

“Mara…” said Alphinaud, reaching out to her, but she turned away from him, from his kindness. He didn’t understand; none of them did. The only ones who had understood were lost to her, forever.

She fell to her knees, keeping her elbows on the table as she sobbed, looking like a supplicant before the great statue of Halone in Saint Reymanaud’s Cathedral. Alphinad had left her to her grief sometime after that, but it didn’t matter. She understood now, more than ever. She could no longer want anything for herself, for _Mara_. For to cross paths with the Warrior of Light was a gamble with your life.

To be the Warrior of Light meant to be truly _alone._

_~~~~~_

The funeral was small, just for family. They lay Haurchefant to rest overlooking Ishgard, the city he gave his life to protect. Only after the mourners had left, all his former men had paid his respects, did Mara venture to the lonely clifftop in Coerthas. She now wore some of the new fashions of Ishgard, made popular by the rising class of engineers and machinist; her bloodied trench coat thrown away for good. Kneeling in the snow, her ruffled pinstripe skirt spread out around her, Mara opened up her pack and pulled out her offering; a single snow lily.

Placing it on the grave, she whispered, “I remember what you said, that night in Camp Dragonhead. That night…didn’t think I be able to carry on, yet, you taught me how. Now, I must carry on, for you. I hope…I hope that how I live, it’s way that you would want…That I make you proud.” Sighing, she stood up, staring out across the ravine to the shining city beyond.

The wind began to pick up, blowing her ruffled skirts, and with one last sigh, Mara started the trek back to Camp Dragonhead. In her wake, atop the lonely grave, the snow lily’s petals fluttered on the cold, Ishgardian wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to see more great ffxiv fic, join our [bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic)!


	7. For Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha Tia knows what he must do to save two worlds...and to save her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: suicidal thoughts

G’raha Tia had admired Cid Garlond when he had first met him. Clearly the man was one of the brightest minds of their age, a shrewd technologian who G’raha had no doubt would change the world with the power of his mind.

But even still, he was in awe of what Cid had accomplished, had been stunned into silence when Biggs III showed him Cid’s formulas, written in his own hand, the theorems and stragetems he had concocted. Magitek was one thing, but the man had pioneered a new sort of technology, one G’raha never thought possible—and the theory _worked._

Of course, it had taken centuries for those theories to become reality. But as G’raha stood in the foyer of the cathedrallike room, gazing up at the machine the Ironworks had created as it whirred to life, he could scarcely believe it. 

“We call it, ‘The Tycoon,’” Biggs III had said, smiling wide as the machine glowed and hummed behind him. “This is the final result of the Ironworks’ research after all those years.”

A machine envisioned by Cid, created by the faithful disciples; a machine meant to cross the Rift, to travel through time and space…G’raha could do not but stare in awe at it.

This would be the machine that would return Mara to life…to return balance to this world.

As he had known, when he was first awoken—hazy and disoriented as someone kneeled over him, called for help—the first words from his lips had been a name. _Her_ name. In his stupor, perhaps he had imagined that it was her kneeling over him, her returning him to life; returning him to her. But as the fog cleared, as the Ironworks had wrapped him in withered blankets and pulled him back to reality, the truth hit him with a heavy thud.

Mankind as he knew it was not ready for the secrets of Allag; mankind was not advanced enough to open the tower. Even though he saw a familiar logo on his rescuers’ clothes, he knew not the faces, the names. Years had passed, centuries maybe. And perhaps, he could even feel it in the air, feel it in the aether…

Mara was not in this world, not anymore.

It was a quiet grief, but one he had expected. His heart ached, mourned, but he would not cry. All tears had been shed that day behind the door, when he had gotten his last glimpse of her before cutting himself off forever—

 _“Wait!”_ _Mara cried out, one last time. Midnight blue hair whipped about her face as she struggled, sticking into the tear tracks on her cheeks. She raised a grasping hand towards him, as if to pull him back again._ _“Raha!”_ _She screamed—_

_And then the heavy, gold Allagan doors slammed shut._

G’raha had pulled the blankets tighter around him as he leaned against the wall in that small room, a place he had nicknamed ‘The Umbilicus’ before his slumber. In this room, he could feel the heart of the tower, feel the pulse of the aether. It was oddly comforting in a way; like feeling a heartbeat. Alone, while the Ironworks left to get their leader, G’raha allowed himself to bask in that comfort, to get his grief out, so he could go forward and do what he must do.

 _The future, here is where my destiny awaits,_ G’raha told himself, swallowing a lump in his throat. _This duty is what I left her for, and I must embrace it with open arms._

Perhaps he could’ve gone forward, done his duty and welcomed it, if things had been normal. He had hoped to find the history of the Warrior of Light soon after awakening—no doubt she had written pages more of her story after he left it, perhaps she had found her happiness after all. He had hoped— _prayed_ —that she would find someone else, eventually. She would be happy, she would be loved, perhaps she would have a family, as well. It didn’t matter if her destiny lay with someone else, as long as she was content, in the end.

As long as she lived a full, wonderful life…

But fate had never been kind to him.

They didn’t let him out of the tower until their leader, called Biggs III, had talked to him. G’raha had found that strange—they brought him food from the outside, rations that could hardly be called tasty or hearty. He asked questions of old cities, faces names—what had become of Sharlayan? Of the Eorzean Alliance? Was the Garlean Empire ever drawn back? And all he got in response was stony silence.

Something was wrong—very wrong.

When Biggs III finally came, looking almost identical to the man G’raha had known, a man _this_ Biggs called his grandfather, his mouth was a thin line, eyes hard.

“You will need to sit down,” he had said, words gruff and uncomforting. “This…it might be difficult to bear.”

All G’raha’s hopes for a brighter future, for one that had been made better by his friends’ efforts were shattered.

And Mara… _Mara!_

After Biggs III left him to his sorrow, he had given him a choice. “We have a plan. It is ambitious, dangerous, and may not even work—Hell, it might lead to all of our deaths instead—but it is a plan, and one spearheaded by Cid Garlond, our founder. We need you to complete it. But this is a choice, G’raha Tia. If you wish it, we will leave this place, return you to your slumber. But if not…a difficult road lies ahead, with but a small chance of success and a high chance of failure…but a chance, all the same.”

Grief had turned into near-madness as Biggs III left him alone in the Umbilicius. He had raged against the Twelve, Hydaelyn, his Allagan ancestors, someone, _anyone_ for letting this happen. Letting this happen to _her!_ He had known he would wake in a world without her, but how could he wake in a world where her life had been cut short? Where she never got the chance at the happiness he had dearly wanted for her? How could he live in a world turned to ruin, slowly dying, while everything he had ever known was gone? Biggs III had left him some Allagan tomestones, now containing holograms, to verify what he said, but G’raha near-sliced his hand smashing them against the floor, the walls, anywhere to deny it—deny this future he had awoken in. Destruction felt _good_ , destruction felt _right_ , and when there was nothing left to smash he felt that hollowness close in on him, that _emptiness_ , the depths of despair beating down on him as he fell to his knees and _sobbed—_

She was gone, she was _gone_ ; she died young, she died _cruelly_ , and there was nothing he could’ve done to stop it.

He could just give up. He could tell Biggs III that their crazy plan would never work; he would want no part of it. He could return the tower to slumber, return himself to slumber, and hope that he would _never_ wake up. It would be easier to lock himself away, and not have to live with the pain, would it not? Biggs III even said it was a tiny chance of success; more like G’raha would get his hopes up and fail, so what was the point in trying?

What was wrong with just surrendering when it was too painful to carry on?

Knees curled up to his chest, G’raha covered his face and cried out in anguish, flashes of _her_ going through his mind—

_Their foreheads pressed together, his face in her hands as she promised, “I will be there with you, G’raha. You won’t face this alone.”_

_His arms wrapped around her small frame as they kissed under the starlight, her happy sigh as he pulled away—smiles of joy and_ love _on her face…_

_His name on her lips, as she smiled, calling to him, “G’raha!”_

_“Raha,” she whispered, her deep violet eyes sparkling beneath dark lashes, looking up at him as if he was the most precious thing in the world…_

_“Raha!” she screamed in terror, her hand reaching out as if to pull him back across the threshold—_

G’raha lifted up his face, his crimson eyes still flowing tears, as he stared at the door to the Umbilicus. Slowly, his gaze turned hard, and he clenched his eyes shut tight to staunch the wave of tears.

When he returned to Biggs III, there were no more tears on his face. “I’ll do it,” he had said.

Now, after months of preparation, it was the eve of that precipice, before they would put their plan into motion. The Tycoon had been tested; everything was aligned with Cid’s theories. The tower was ready—G’raha could feel the aether pulse beneath his fingertips, ready to assent to the will of its master. And _he_ was ready—anxious, but willing. The time had come, now only he had to play his part.

And what a part he would play.

He had shed his former clothes, archer gear long forgotten, and had taken up the robes of a simple mage. The keeper of the tower should be able to wield powerful magicks from channeling its aether, so a mage he would be. In the off hours of the night, he had practiced with some of those who had taken up thaumaturgy or conjuration before, to get the basics. It was hard, adjusting to a new combat style, but he found the ebb and flow of aether as a thaumaturge a gentle rhythm to follow, much like the rhythm of drawing and knocking an arrow—all in one smooth motion. He would need more practice, of course, once he got to where he was going, but hopefully the Tower could help fill in any gaps in his experience.

For now, the Ironworks celebrated their achievement, many of them taking the time to rest early for the ordeal tomorrow. G’raha had not supped with them; no, he decided to spend much of this night in solitude, on reflection. He knew what he had to do on the morrow. Binding himself to the Crystal Tower to survive the trip between worlds—it did not sound pleasant. It sounded painful, something _forbidden_ , like breaking a rule he explicitly knew not to do. In theory, he knew how it worked, but how much of himself would the Tower take?

 _“The more I learn of the Crystal Tower, the less I am myself._ ” He had said to her, that day. How true it would turn out to be, in the end…

He stood about the Umbilicus, the heart of the tower, his sanctuary as the others gathered outside. This was the place he would do it, G’raha had decided. In this place where he could feel all the power of the Crystal Tower around him, he would bind himself here, and hope that, in the end, the Tower would let enough of him go to finish his task.

G’raha’s ears flicked back as he heard the door open behind him. Perhaps he should’ve started locking it… “I knew I’d find you here,” said Biggs III staring about his domain. “Whenever you’re brooding, you come here.”

G’raha shrugged. “I suppose I do have a bit of an attachment to this place. It’s where I slumbered for hundreds of years, after all.”

“Hm,” said Biggs III, looking around the small nest G’raha had made over time; of haphazard books and blankets and tomestones and files. It was less like a home base and more like a messy bedroom, now. “Nervous about tomorrow?”

“I suppose,” said G’raha, reaching out to place a hand on the crystal wall, feeling that pulse of aether. “What we will attempt—what _I_ will attempt—it’s dangerous, and has a small chance of success…Binding myself to the tower is not the most appealing plan, I assure you. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know how much of _me_ the Tower will take—”

“Surely there are other ways?”

“There are _not_ , and you know it,” said G’raha, removing his hand and turning around. “It is the _only_ way. But whatever becomes of me, that does not matter. What matters most is doing it anyway, and succeeding—doing it for _her._ ”

“For the future,” said Biggs III, correcting him with a frown on his face.

“For the future, yes.”

There was something in the way the Roegadyn’s eyes narrowed, the way Biggs III walked toward him in slow, heavy steps. “There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you, G’raha Tia.”

“And that is?” G’raha’s ears flicked back to him, his voice deliberately neutral—observant.

“We’ve all heard your stories of the Warrior of Light; of her heroism, her great deeds. Yet some of us have wondered—talked amongst ourselves—the way you talk about her seems simply more than adoration. There is a fondness there that…”

He trailed off, but G’raha’s eyes narrowed, his fingers clenched. _Say it,_ he thought, biting his tongue. _Say it, damn you!_

“You love her,” said Biggs III, flatly, accusatory.

“Yes,” said G’raha, waving him away if that was no consequence. “Is that all?”

“No, damnit, that’s _not_ all!” said Biggs III, stepping forward again, crowding him. “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you, but there’s been some… _talk_ , G’raha Tia. Talk about your intensions for this mission; your reasoning’s for wanting to save the Warrior of Light.”

“What the Hell are you implying?”

 _Finally_ , Biggs III came out with it, “Are you doing this for the future, as we said? To save this world from ruin? Or are you doing it for yourself, so you can see her again?”

Ah, so _that’s_ what this was all about.

G’raha was not a tall man; Biggs III towered over him; Hell, most of the Ironworks stood above him, But as the bubble of anger ripped through him, as he drew himself up to his full height, his crimson eyes flashing with anger, even Biggs III stepped back as if G’raha had intimidated him. “I will see her again, but if you think I am doing this in some vain hope that I’ll get a second chance at what I missed, then you are sorely mistaken.”

G’raha took a step forward, throwing his hand out, gesturing to the tower. “Tomorrow I will become what I must, and I do not know what will come out on the other side. Will I be more human than construct once the Tower has taken me? None can say. And afterwards, after the trip between worlds, in order to play my part, I must become something else. I will bury G’raha Tia, and of him will be born whatever is left in his place.”

Closing his fist, G’raha looked up to the crystalline ceiling of the Umbilicus, imagining it, “She will be brought to me, but she will see no one but the caretaker of the tower, his face cloaked in shame. I will lead her on her path, from a distance, guiding her but never laying a hand on what was once mine. And then I will die, die to save her, and I _hope_ I die as she is cursing my name. I _want_ her to hate me, to think me a villain in the end, for that is the part I will play. And _that_ will be the end of it. For _her_ , I will do anything. For the fate of two worlds, I will kill who I am, kill who I will become, and I will be glad of it.” Looking back at Biggs III, G’raha’s eyes flashed again, with determination. “So don’t you _dare_ think I am doing this because I will get some benefit. This may be the hardest thing I will ever have to do, to deny her, to deny _myself_ , and I will run towards it with open arms. If that is not enough for you, then well, I don’t know what else to say.”

Biggs III stared at him, stunned into silence. After a long moment, the Roegadyn shifted his feet, gazing at the floor. “So you really mean it, then. To see the one you love in front of you, never letting them know who you are or being able to stretch out your hand…one would have to have the patience of a saint to keep up that charade.”

G’raha lifted up his chin, trickster’s smirk on his face, crimson eyes sparkling with mirth. “Or the cunning of a devil.”

Biggs III gave a little snort. “True! Well then, why not join me by the fire for one last drink before we send you off on the morrow? If this is to be your last night as yourself, might as well enjoy it?”

G’raha sighed, taking one last look around the Umbilicus, knowing this might be his last chance to relax for a long, long time. “All right…” As he followed Biggs III out, the crystal sparkled hauntingly, enticingly behind him; for it knew he was already bound to it, if only to make it official on the morrow.

When everything was ready the next morning, with all the Ironworks having evacuated, G’raha stood in the Umbilicus once more, preparing himself for this last, final step. He was nervous, sure—his hands nearly shook as he outstretched them to the crystal wall, ready to bind himself to its power forever. Would it be painful? He was sure of it. He was certain he would survive; the Crystal Tower was not like to kill its caretaker, but how much would the Crystal Tower take of him in return for this power? And would he even be worthy to wield it?

He took a shaky, steadying breath. No, he would have to wield it. He would have to become worthy. For the future…

He pressed his fingertips against the crystal walls, feeling that low hum; that pulse of aether. The promise of great power.

_For her._

And then he called upon it.

G’raha gasped; cried out in _agony_ as he felt it searing through his veins—the power of millennia racing through him like a conduit, like the flow of magitek racing through a terminal. It set his body aflame, he felt as if his skin was bubbling, boiling off—every inch of him burned, as if he was stabbed by thousands of tiny knives, and he screamed and he screamed as he lost his balance, fell to the floor, hearing that sickening crackling, clinking sound—he wrenched opened his eyes, clenching his teeth as he saw that crystal growing up his right arm, cracking and shattering as it claimed him. His vision wavered, he near passed out as he felt another wave of pain, this time up his torso, to his face—

 _No_. He had to endure, he must!

“For…her!” He cried out through clenched teeth, as he felt that horrible stiffness, suffocating pain, cracking and clattering like ice, claw up his throat.

For her _life._

And for his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to see more great ffxiv fic, join our [bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic)!


	8. Throw Wide the Gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious figure pulls Mara from her body on a Gyr Abanian battleground...

_“At last, I found you…”_

That voice rang in her mind, like shrill alarm, piercing through the void. It ached and it _ached,_ and she fell on unsteady knees, clutching her head as it throbbed a harsh tempo—like the beating of a drum, the pain pulsed and pounded and clanged and hurt, hurt _hurt—_ Her vison swirled, shrieking static in her horns as Mara felt herself pulled down…down…away from that battlefield in Gyr Abania, away from Zenos as he walked forward, katana held high, away from everything she loved and held dear—stretched thin like taffy, pulling and pulling and pulling and—

Mara opened her eyes.

She was on a dark plane, not unlike the realm of Hyadelyn she saw on occasion. But unlike Hydaelyn’s realm where she felt warm, safe; this place felt intimidating; unknown. Beneath her feet was some sort of summoning circle, colored in light blue and gold, decorated with circles upon circles. She felt dragged between two planes—as if her body existed in two places. That voice that had spoken, it was the same she had heard before, when the Scions had fallen into their slumber. Perhaps that was why she felt that way? Had she now fallen into the same slumber as well?

She heard something; some _one_ behind her. Turning fast on her heel, she reached for the grimoire at her side—

“Please, please! There’s no cause for alarm!”

She paused, hand on her grimoire, taking a look at the figure before her. In the dark of the void he stood out, like a ripple on water. The figure was hooded, covering their eyes, but they appeared to be a Hyur, though short. Gilded black robes with elegant swatches and red and white and a golden, ancient-looking staff. While Mara did not feel safe; she somehow _knew_ this was the one responsible for all this, for the loss of her friends, she somehow knew that whoever this was didn’t intend her any harm.

For the moment.

As long as he _did what she asked._ “Send me back, right now!”

He raised his hand again, as if to deflect a blow, voice sounding somewhat…embarrassed? “In—in a moment! The battle is over, and the danger is passed, I can assure you of this.”

Mara narrowed her eyes, “And you think I trust that?”

The enigmatic figure sighed, shaking his head, the hand on his staff (it was blue? There was something _wrong_ with it—it looked wrought of stone, of the same stone of the foundation she stood on, rather than flesh and blood) tensed. “All I ask is that you listen. Then I will send you back as promised, safe and sound. Can you agree to that, Warrior of Light?”

She shouldn’t be agreeing to _anything_ this figure said, but…Stepping back, Mara folded her arms across her chest, standing up to her full height (she wasn’t much bigger than him, to be honest.) “I will listen. Start talking. I have business with Garlean Empire.”

The cloaked man paused at this, thinking over her words. “I confess, this is not where I intended to meet, I intended this meeting to happen much earlier, in another place and other time…but the place of our meeting is no consequence; much like the war your wage now. Win or lose, the path you walk leads only to oblivion.”

Oh, good. _Riddles._ “You speak like Ascian. Speak plainly!” Mara said through clenched teeth. She was _done_ with riddles and wordplay—she had not the patience for it now, now that she was the only Scion left standing.

“I speak as plainly as I can. There is much to be explained, I know, and I cannot do it until you are by my side, in body and soul. For now, all I can tell you is that this war is pointless on the threads of time. The better path, the path that leads to salvation leads you _here_ , to _me_. I have need of your strength—and you have need of the sanctuary I can offer.”

“I do not need anything from _you,_ ” snapped Mara, a bubble of anger in her gut. “Was it _you_ who took Scions? My _friends?”_

Another pause. Though she could not see his eyes, she had a distinct feeling that he was looking down, in shame. “It was.”

_“Why?”_

“I meant to summon you!” He said at once, and in his voice as some conviction—some sort of passion. “It was an accident, these things are unstable and I—I cannot explain it all now—I have _need_ of you, Warrior of Light. The First has need of you.”

“What is this ‘First’ you speak of? I do not understand—”

“You _cannot_ understand, not until you see it for yourself,” He spoke again, voice pleading now. “I ask this of you not because I wish it were so, but because I _must._ ” There was another pause, the hand on the staff wavered. “Tell me, is there something in your life you would fight for? That you would give anything to see safe?”

“Give anything?” Mara mused on it for a moment. What could she say? ‘Eorzea’ she supposed—That was what the Warrior of Light was meant to do, was she not? Hydaleyn had raised her up, given her these powers to save this star, to save Eorzea. She fought for the land, for its people, for Hydaelyn. That was her duty, her purpose—And it was one she would be intrinsically bound to, until the end of her days.

Yes, that was the Warrior of Light’s fight, her sacred duty, but…

What did _Mara_ fight for?

She imagined a distant land; a lonely iloh on the Steppe—Kahkol Iloh, small and weak. The laughing children of Doma, playing around the ruined walls of the Doman Enclave, rejoicing that they were finally free. The welcome smiles of Count Edmont, of Aymeric, of Francel, all her allies in Ishgard. Alisaie’s whimsical smirk, Alphinaud’s nervous laughter, Y’sholta’s chiding, Thancred’s teasing, Urianger’s endless lectures; all the Scions as they rejoiced in another primal thwarted, another life saved.

Mara’s hand unconsciously reached up to her collarbone, thumbing the outline of the jade pendant that lay hidden beneath her clothes…

_A flash of crimson hair, disappearing behind those golden, Allagan doors…_

“Yes, there is.”

“Then you understand what it means; it means I must try anything, _everything_ to keep it safe. My path has led me here, to you. And your path as led you to me. To keep safe that which you love, you must come to me.”

Mara swallowed, raising a hand, examining it—her hand was starting to look a little transparent; whatever magic brought her soul here was starting to fade. “How?”

“I have made all arrangements. Go to the Crystal Tower. I have left something for you at its base.”

“The…the Crystal Tower?” Mara breathed, a sharp pang hitting her heart. No…no she could not go there. Not _there._ Not _again._ Not after…

 _“Raha!” she screamed, fighting and struggling against those strong arms that held her, trying to claw her way out, her way to_ him _, to stop him, keep him there, anything—_

_And then those doors slammed shut, and her heart knew true despair._

“Why…why there?” she said, her voice breaking. She had not been able to _look_ at it since then—even at the Rising Stones, even in Revenant’s Toll, she made sure to never look in its direction. The Crystal Tower was a blight on the landscape, an ugly thing reaching for the sky, defiant, mocking her for what she had lost.

The man’s mouth opened slightly, the tiniest gasp of surprise coming from within. “Is…is there something wrong?” he asked, his voice a forced calm.

Mara forced her hand into a fist, to get a grip on herself. No, she would _not_ tell a stranger of her pains, her regrets. “It is nothing,” she snapped. “Nothing at all.” For _he_ had to mean nothing to her now. “Continue.”

“I…what I mean to say was…” his self-assured demeanor was gone, now he stumbled over his words, caught off guard. “If you would find what I left then I can…I can take care of the rest.” Standing taller, he gripped his staff, tapping it on the floor, dispelling whatever it was that set him off guard. “If you do this, then soon we will throw wide the gates, and the path to the First will be yours to walk at last.”

He held out a hand to her, offering her to take it—for her to follow him to the edge of the earth.

Mara held herself back. She did not know this man. She knew nothing about him other than he was the one who had taken her friends from her—had nearly taken her as well. He spoke in grand gestures, spoke of saving what she cared about, saving what _he_ cared about, like it was some noble quest; another adventure for the Warrior of Light. Duty compelled her to remain in Eorzea, to protect the Alliance against the Garlean invaders—duty compelled her to take his hand and save what he loved, what she loved.

For the Warrior of Light was a woman of miracles, and this would be another miracle for her to achieve.

He knew this, surely; he knew it would be folly for her to trust him to return her back to her body, let alone follow him to this ‘First’ wherever it was. She had a vague memory—of the Warrior of Darkness telling a sad tale of a lost world—but she knew little of what he spoke about, or what this man professed.

He would know all this and yet he put his faith in her. Faith that she would follow his lead, follow _him_ wherever he led.

And she…

She did not know him.

Mara stepped closer. 

She did not trust him.

Mara slowly raised her hand.

But, somehow, she could believe him.

Though both of their forms were half-solid, fading back to the real world, Mara gently took his hand, feeling the warmth within.

The mouth that lay beneath the cowl smiled.

And then her world faded into light, as she felt herself awake back in Eorzea; back on that cold, hard battleground.

**Author's Note:**

> Join our [bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) for more fic and general debauchery.


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